Bunker Horror

to Robsmy

The bathroom is the one place I have a little privacy. It’s so small I can sit on the toilet, wash a hand in the sink, wash another in the shower and rest my feet against the door to keep Mom from barging in. But I forgot, so the door opened while I was journaling.

“Mom!” I said. I tried to shut the door with my foot, but she blocked it with hers and yanked my noise-cancelling headphones off.

Immediately, from overhead, I heard screams, running, people being chased, an animal growling - not an animal, it is human - a different kind of human.

Mom said, “Dinner is ready.”

“Why do you do that? You know I can’t stand hearing it.“ I was on the verge of tears.

“I cook dinner at the same time every day. If you pay attention to the schedule, I wouldn’t have to call you.”

I wanted to scream. Was she dead inside? Arguing only prolongs my torture. “Okay, Mom, you’re right, sorry.”

She returned the headphones and I returned to sweet silence. That’s my life. Periodic exposure to vile acts of violence and then silence and boredom. It’s not much of a life, but I am alive, so I guess that’s a good thing.

I wish I had argued more before we came here. I missed out on pool parties, sleepovers, desert, and fast food. There were no serious consequences if I didn’t do what I was told.

I’ll be sixteen on Saturday. I should be learning to drive, learning to date, and sneaking out with friends, but the world has changed; sneaking out could get me dead.

I walk to the dining room, which is also the living room and the kitchen in this underground box we call home. It’s Sunday, so we're having a pork chop with a mint leaf, some peas and half a carrot. I’d love some variety in my diet, but I suppose lots of people would love not to be eaten. What do I have to complain about?

I miss laughing. I used to laugh so hard with my best friends Sarah and Hannah. They died that first year. I blamed Mom for not bringing them to live in our bunker. I had to forgive her eventually. None of this was her fault.

Sarah and Hanna were twin sisters. Since we were born on the same day, we pretended to be triplets. Their mom called us The Three Peas. We met in the first grade, and we celebrated all our birthdays together; until that last year, before the bunker.

Things changed slowly at first. Mom was busy at the CDC and let me stay with Hannah and Sarah while she worked. Later she didn’t want me out of her sight – ever. I celebrated my twelfth birthday with Mom, just the two of us, no cake, she doesn’t approve of sugar.

Over the next few weeks, I never left the house except to go to school. Mom seemed tormented; she thought something horrible was going to happen.

Turned out she was right.

One night she came home from work looking sick, sweating, dark circles under her eyes. She was mumbling to herself, pacing the room, peeking through shut curtains.

She went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of soda and gave it to me – soda!

“Mom? You’re scaring me.”

“My heart, you must pay attention.” She sat me down next to her on the sofa. “Do you remember my friends, James and Clara?”

I drank the soda quickly, half expecting her to take it back. “I remember the zombie fungus,” I said. Her friends were doing research on a fungus that takes over the brain of its host and forces it to do its bidding, no twelve-year-old could forget that.

“The Ophiocordyceps fungus, dear.” Even distressed, she took the time to correct my language. She stood up and began pacing again. “Something terrible has happened. We think, based on the research notes, that they crossed the genetic material of the fungus with the DNA of a rare strain of Streptococcus bacteria which causes human flesh to rot. They inadvertently created a novel, hybrid species. A carnivore, capable of taking over the brains of their hosts.”

“And?” I said. I knew she was holding back critical information.

“These carnivores eat human flesh, exclusively.”

Real-life, flesh-eating zombies. I finished the soda. “What are they going to do about it?”

“Who?” She stopped pacing and turned to me.

“James and Clara.”

“Nothing. They’re dead. All of them, the entire team is dead.” She started pacing again.

My imagination went to thoughts of scientist zombies cannibalizing each other. I needed to be brought back to reality, so I said, “How did they die?”

“They were, they…Oh God, they ate each other. We didn’t know. We sent a second team-up because we’d lost communication. We thought it was a polar bear attack. The second team returned symptomatic, so we ran tests while looking over the research notes. We put them on lockdown, but...”

“But?”

“They were infected. After which they commuted through three international terminals before reaching us.”

That’s when whatever she put in the soda started to make everything go fuzzy. The room tipped sideways and my mother’s voice sounded warped and strange. I heard a few words like highly contagious, unprecedented pandemonium, this is for your protection, under control, and then everything went black.

I woke up in an underground bunker. My pink striped walls were gone, my friends, my teachers, my vinyl record collection, my laptop, my phone, my whole world - gone.

Mom said, “I’m trying to keep you safe, my heart. It’s temporary, for a few months.”

That was almost four years ago. Mom still works at the CDC but these days she has armed guards escort her to and from work.

I cried for days. I didn’t miss the constant tweeting, messaging, checking for likes. It was my friends that I missed, my connections with real people. I missed thinking out loud and getting a response. I missed talking and laughing and feeling like someone gets me; my mother doesn’t get me.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted when she yanked my headphones off - yet again.

A woman screamed in agony overhead as her flesh was devoured…

A siren wailed in a slow crescendo, loud enough to drown out the cacophony of horrors above. Mom thrust my gas mask at me, already wearing hers.

I put on the mask, and she returned my headphones. I noticed my plate was empty except for the mint leaf. I must have eaten, but don’t remember. I often get lost in my thoughts, trying to escape the monotony.

I washed the dishes precisely the way my mother likes it done; it’s not worth an argument.

Later, she tapped my shoulder, meaning it was safe to remove the mask and headphones. The siren signifies the beginning of the hunt. They spray chemicals to disorient the infected. They shoot at whatever moves. If you are not infected, stay inside. Zombies die quietly, so the world is eerily silent for two days each week.

During our third Scrabble game, Mom said, “It’s your birthday on Saturday.”

I shrugged; we never celebrate.

“A lady at work makes cakes."

“Real ones?”

“Would you like one?”

Of course, I wanted a real cake.

The last time she offered me sugar, I ended up in a drug-induced, blackout and woke up here, so I was a little wary, but she wasn’t acting especially weird, and I finally decided she simply wanted to do something nice for my sixteenth birthday.

As promised, on Saturday she presented me with a red velvet birthday cake. It looked beautiful, like the ones they used to have on display at bakeries. Mom cut each of us a thin slice and it was the best thing I had tasted in four years.

She also gave me a heart-shaped pendant with the inscription: my heart. It was unusually sentimental for her and I felt very close to her.

She went for a nap after lunch. The sugar in the cake made her sick.

While she was sleeping, I took another slice. I was wearing my headphones, so I didn't hear her approach. She ripped the headphones off.

“How dare you. We are on rations. You know that.”

I heard a girl scream. Someone was running, crying…

I lunged for the headphones.

Mom jumped back. “How could you be so selfish?” she said.

Something was growling, someone was being chased, there were more screams, fear in their voices, teenagers, something familiar in their cries. It frightened me.

I covered my ears with my hands and shouted, “Give those back, right now!“

“Why did you take a second piece without permission?”

Why did she care? The cake made her sick.

The screams were louder, terrified girls crying hysterically, another deafening scream and then I heard her, like it was yesterday.

“Hannah, where are you? Hannah, answer me!” Sarah called. I knew her voice, even after four years. It was my Sarah.

I heard bones cracking and snapping like dry twigs. I heard the flesh being torn away from the bone. I heard the tortured cries of my friend, and I could do nothing.

There was more screaming and crying. Hannah would be next.

I shoved my mother, ripped the headphones from her hand and pulled them on, fell to the floor, curled up in a ball, and screamed. When I couldn’t scream anymore, I cried. I cried for Sarah and for Hanna, for the lost time, for the lost life, for theirs and for mine. I cried until there was nothing left and then I did nothing.

When you live in such a small space, you can sense when you’re alone. I sat up. I searched the bunker, but Mom was gone. She must have left only moments before.

The cake was gone too - my cake.

I was furious about the cake.

Stupid I know.

Anything not to think about Sarah.

My Sarah, alive, until today. Mom had lied about them dying. Why?

Like me, Sarah turned sixteen today and for the last four years, while I was in a bunker, she was living a real life. She laughed, cried, hugged, kissed, and celebrated with the people she loved. She played games and ate dinner over lively conversations. Maybe she started dating, changed her hair, learned how to wear makeup. Was she thinking about college? Were there still colleges? If she had a phone, she probably had the contacts for every human still alive on earth. Sarah had lived the last four years, it did not matter that she was dead, because she had lived.

I knew what I had to do.

I wrote a note:

Mom, I love you. I am going to live a real life.

I took the heart-shaped pendant off my neck and laid it on the note.

I opened the door and climbed up the metal bars until I reached a large disc overhead. I found the strength to slide the disc all the way over and I climbed out into the light.

If the zombies got me, I was going to die with the warmth of the sun on my face.

I couldn’t see through the glare. I heard screams and running and cries and - laughter? My eyes adjusted to the light, and I looked around. There were no zombies. There were kids, normal kids, laughing and screaming. I was standing in a crowded amusement park. The bunker was directly under the Funhouse of Horrors. The horrible noises, the growls, the breaking bones, the tearing flesh were all sound effects. The screams were thrill-seekers.

I saw my mother far in the distance, leaving the park. She was not being escorted by armed guards – another lie.

I started walking.

On a post ten feet away, I saw a faded Missing Child poster. It offered a reward for information on the whereabouts of a missing girl.

The photo was me – from four years ago.